Chapter 14
Ihad faced down corporate predators, hostile witnesses, and men who would happily see me dead. None of it prepared me for the devastation of looking across a courtroom and finding an empty chair where she should have been.
The grand jury chamber was a windowless, wood-paneled room designed to feel like justice, or at least justice's waiting room.
Twenty-three citizens sat in tiered rows, their faces carefully neutral, the way faces got when people were trying very hard to seem impartial.
No cameras. No spectators except for a small gallery at the back.
No defense attorneys to object or cross-examine.
Just the prosecutor, the jurors, and whoever was unlucky enough to be on the stand.
Today, that was me.
"Please state your name and occupation for the record," Assistant U.S. Attorney Rebecca Chen said, her voice the particular kind of crisp that came from years of asking questions she already knew the answers to.
"William Steele. I'm a senior partner at Sterling & Steele Law."
"And how did you become involved in the investigation of Meridian Tech and its executives?"
I settled into the familiar rhythm of testimony.
Facts. Dates. The chain of evidence that had led us from suspicious financial transfers to a trafficking operation hiding behind corporate infrastructure.
I'd done this hundreds of times. Depositions, trials, arbitration hearings.
My voice was steady, my answers precise, my posture the exact degree of relaxed that communicated confidence without arrogance.
This was the version of me I'd perfected over a decade.
The courtroom version. The one that ran on autopilot while the rest of me stayed behind the glass.
"The initial irregularities came to light during a routine audit," I explained. "Payments from Meridian's discretionary fund that didn't match any documented business purpose. The amounts were relatively small, fifty thousand here, seventy-five thousand there, but the timing was suspicious."
"Suspicious how?"
"They correlated with shipping manifests for what was listed as 'equipment transfers.' But the destinations were residential properties, not warehouses or business locations."
Chen nodded, making a note. "And what did this suggest to you?"
"That someone was using corporate funds to move something other than equipment. Or someone."
My eyes drifted to the gallery. Not a decision. A reflex, the way your hand reaches for a railing before you've decided you're falling.
The small section of chairs held a handful of observers: a court reporter's assistant, two men in suits I didn't recognize, an older woman who might have been a law student taking notes.
No Lindsey.
I blinked. Refocused on Chen. "The forensic analysis confirmed the pattern. Every payment from the discretionary fund preceded a documented transfer by exactly twenty-four to forty-eight hours."
"Who conducted this forensic analysis?"
"Lindsey Ashford. She's a certified forensic accountant with expertise in financial crime investigation."
Her name came out the way it was supposed to: clinical, professional, a name attached to credentials.
It did not come out the way it existed in my head, which was attached to scrambled eggs at midnight and her voice saying it mattered and the look on her face on a balcony in Virginia when she'd told me to stop performing.
"We'll hear from Ms. Ashford tomorrow," Chen said. "For now, let's focus on how the evidence was preserved and documented."
I answered her questions. Chain of custody.
Digital forensics protocols. Preservation procedures.
My voice stayed steady. My hands stayed relaxed on the arms of the witness chair.
The courtroom version of me was doing its job, which was good, because the rest of me was doing something I couldn't quite control, which was scanning that gallery every forty-five seconds like a searchlight.
She wasn't coming. The realization settled into my stomach, heavy and cold. She was doing exactly what I'd spent four days asking for: maintaining distance. Being professional. Respecting the line I'd drawn in a hallway while my hands were still shaking from kissing her.
Be careful what you engineer. Sometimes the machinery works exactly as designed, and you find out you designed the wrong thing.
"Mr. Steele." Chen's voice sharpened slightly, and I realized I'd let a silence stretch too long.
"I apologize. Could you repeat that?"
"I asked about your professional relationship with the primary target, Victor Reeves."
"I've never represented Mr. Reeves directly. Sterling & Steele has handled matters for Meridian Tech in the past, but not since the irregularities came to light."
"And you saw no conflict of interest in investigating a former client?"
"The firm's prior representation was limited to contract negotiations unrelated to the current matter. Once we identified potential criminal activity, we had an ethical obligation to act."
Chen nodded, but I could see where she was heading. She was good, thorough, strategic. She knew the defense would attack my credibility eventually, so she was doing it first. Controlled demolition. Pull the building down yourself so your opponent can't surprise you with the explosion.
"Mr. Steele, you've been the subject of several state bar inquiries over the course of your career. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Can you tell the jury what those inquiries concerned?"
"Complaints from opposing counsel alleging aggressive litigation tactics. All were investigated and dismissed."
"Your reputation in the legal community is somewhat..." She paused, selecting the word like someone choosing a surgical instrument. "Controversial. Some colleagues describe you as ruthless. Even vindictive."
"I represent my clients zealously within the bounds of the law. Opposing parties often find that unpleasant."
"But your methods have been questioned."
"My methods have been investigated and cleared. Repeatedly."
Chen accepted this with a nod and moved to the subject I'd been bracing for the way you brace for a car hitting a guardrail. You know it's coming. You tense everything. It doesn't help.
"Let's discuss your personal connection to cases involving institutional failure. Seven years ago, your sister Nicole was the victim of a serious assault at her university."
The room didn't change. Same lights. Same temperature. Same twenty-three faces in tiered rows. But something in my peripheral vision narrowed, the way it did when threat response kicked in, the edges of the world going dark to focus on whatever was directly in front of me.
"Yes."
"The alleged perpetrator was never charged."
"That's correct."
"Can you tell us why?"
"The university's investigation concluded there was insufficient evidence to pursue disciplinary action. The district attorney's office declined to prosecute based on the same assessment."
The words came out in the right order, in the right tone, and they cost exactly what they always cost, which was something I didn't have a unit of measurement for.
"And how did you respond to that outcome?"
I could feel the jurors' attention shift. Sharpen. This was what they'd been waiting for, maybe without knowing it. The human part. The part that explained why a man in a tailored suit had spent seven years hunting people through the shadows of the legal system.
"I supported my sister through the appeals process," I said carefully. "I advocated for a review of the university's decision. When those avenues were exhausted, I encouraged her to focus on healing rather than further legal action."
"There are reports that you harassed the professor in question. A Dr. Richard Vance."
"I made inquiries about his conduct through appropriate channels. I wouldn't characterize that as harassment."
"You attempted to bring a civil suit against him."
"I consulted with attorneys about potential causes of action. None proved viable given the legal standards involved."
"Some might say you became obsessed with the case."
"Some might say I was a brother who didn't stop." I caught myself. Too much heat. The courtroom version of me didn't run hot. I recalibrated. "My commitment to my sister's well-being informed my professional focus on institutional accountability. It didn't compromise my objectivity."
Chen studied me for a beat longer than was comfortable, then nodded. "No further questions on this topic."
I exhaled through my nose. Slow. Controlled. The worst was behind me, or at least this particular version of it. The personal territory had been mapped and navigated without explosion. The jury had seen the wound and seen me hold steady.
But as I answered the next round of technical questions about document authentication and forensic protocols, my focus kept splitting.
Half of me here, in the witness chair, doing the job.
The other half in that gallery, looking at an empty seat and understanding, with a clarity that felt like standing in cold water, that I'd done this to myself.
She hadn't come because I'd taught her not to. Four days of good and professional distance and a closed door in a hallway. I'd built that lesson, brick by brick, and she'd learned it the way she learned everything: thoroughly and permanently.
"Mr. Steele?" Chen's voice.
"Yes. The authentication process. Every file was logged, timestamped, and verified by independent forensic specialists. The encryption keys were obtained through a legal process and documented accordingly."
Clean answer. Good delivery. The courtroom version of me was running smoothly.
The rest of me was thinking about eggs in a warped pan and the way she'd said the word perfect like she was talking about something other than breakfast.